


Le Chasseur Ombre

by inkedintoincognito



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-05-28 12:03:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6328087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedintoincognito/pseuds/inkedintoincognito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The newspapers knew him in three different ways.<br/>Adrien Agreste, goody-two shoes blond model, Paris' sweet boy. (It goes without saying that this was his least favorite of his identities.)<br/>Chat Noir, superhero, pun extraordinaire, pretty nice body. (More bearable, but still not his favorite.)<br/>His third side? (This one... this one is the most wonderful.) The Shadow Hunter, Paris' most feared killer, whose body count was well into the twenties.<br/>(God, did he love this one.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The newspapers knew him in so many ways.

Adrien Agreste, handsome, heart-throb, emotional, the protégé son of Gabriel Agreste and cute friend of Chloe Bourgeois (he wouldn’t lie- he was beginning to mind that last part a little bit,). Soon to be astronaut, or doctor, or lifeguard (a particularly successful line of clothing came out after that one). Or- and did they love this- a normal person!

It goes without saying that he hated this identity most of all.

The other- that one was more bearable.

Chat Noir, Paris’ savior, Ladybug’s partner, witty, fun, brave, daring. Punny, if they got an interview.

And then his third side. The one he loved the most. The person whose existence caused a curfew in the streets, an actual curfew! The one whose name struck fear into the hearts of those who lived here, the very threat of his presence causing mothers to pull their babies closer, fathers to take their children to karate class (not that it would help).

He was, every once in a freeing, light night, Paris’ feared murderer, body count reaching well into the twenties by now.

God, did he love this one.

The newspapers called him Shadow Hunter. Le Chasseur Ombre.

He couldn’t have picked a better name himself.

Ladybug, when she suggested patrols, called him a piece of filth.

His father called him a distraction to his work, a nuisance to his schedule.

Plagg called him a monster. Poor little guy. But what could he do, bound to lovely Adrien Agreste? _Tell_ someone? And, what, the ideal confidant would show up in that pesky twenty-foot radius that he was confined to, so long as Adrien wore that ring?

He didn’t think so.

He didn’t use Plagg when he went out at night, though. He’s not a complete sadist. Plagg didn’t like killing? Fine with him. He didn’t need Noir’s help; fencing; the self-defense classes he had to take when he was younger; and… okay, maybe some moves being Noir taught him. These made him the perfect killer, physically. And he had the perfect mentality for it.

A different costume to help him hide. Home-made, though not unsimilar to his own Chat Noir ensemble: a simple body suit; utterly black, though his flair made him choose material that was deep enough to reflect dark shades of purple when light hit it. None of the frivolous leather or clunky demin that Noir had on his waist or legs; rather, a simple mask, bandit-style (this one _could_ fall off,) tied underneath a black hat (the rather fetching one from two seasons ago, with the wide rim and silver ribbon that tilted so wonderfully in front of his eyes) and a coil of red rope around his waist, holding a single knife.

The knife was fun. Very fun. But the rope? This is what he used to kill. To really, truly kill.

This was also what he left with the body. His calling-card. ( _Kill_ ing card, anyone?)

 

It- this persona, this villain- was ironic, really. And that was what he _loved about_ it.

Chat Noir, Paris’ famous superhero, saving people by day… killing them by night.

 

He wasn’t a fool. He kept his identities- all three of them, really, that can’t be healthy, now, can it?- secret, separate; a master of the face, no slip-ups here. Well, there was _one_ slip up.

 

_"Cataclysm!"_

_he walked closer to her, his hand sending off shadows, excitement that was oh-so-familiar to another side of him rolling through his chest, through his stomach._  

_"I’ve always wondered what it would do to a person."_

But he was hypnotized. He could forgive himself for that one. Ladybug had forgotten about it moments later, and, besides, who’s to say that wasn’t that nasty little villain talking through Paris’ great hero?

Though he did really, _really_ want to see what it would do to a person.

 

He chuckled, swaying slightly in the breeze. Antennae weren’t the most supportive things, but he would manage.

His suit kept him concealed; the post-twilight sky so perfectly matched to the material. Unintentionally, but Adrien has always had a lucky side. He was lucky the day he receive Plagg, he was lucky the day he met Ladybug (so strong and beautiful; he had not, in all honesty, thought that he would love anyone prior to seeing her that day, standing tall against the sky), and he was _very_ lucky the day he snuck out of his home, meeting some scum robber in the streets under a waning moon.

That had been his first time killing a real, breathing person. His first time feeling _real_ power flood his system, because _he_ was doing this, not some boy in a suit: it was all _him._

And maybe that’s why he didn’t mind Plagg’s resistance, maybe that was why he didn’t starve him into submission. The real thrill was doing all of this, the climbing, the sneaking, the stalking, the _killing_ all on his own, as Adrien, as Adrien in a costume.

He crouched there for a while, glancing at the moon, at the rooftops, at the alleys below. There was always someone breaking curfew, and he, on this night, was free- finally!- to show them exactly why that was a bad idea, to remind them that there were forces out there greater than themselves.

And to, yes, satiate the twitching in his fingers and the desire in his chest and the curiosity in his mind.

And that was when he heard it. The footstep, sharp and echoing against the cobblestones. There were cops on every corner, but what were they? Henchmen in blue shirts, trained for a week before being shoved out into the street and stumbling their way into a donut shop.

He wasn’t worried about them.

That gal down there, though. She sure was.

He leapt of the antennae, landing on the roof of the house and rolling, clutching his hat to his head. The first time someone saw him and lived- the wife managed to get away while he was slashing through her husband’s stomach- he had lost his hat in the struggle. The hat, though, was an integral part of his costume, and he ended up looking silly in all the drawings the newspapers published.

The next time, he let the child go, and he made sure he was wearing a hat. Problem fixed, for the most part, though he wanted to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.

Anyways.

He peeked over the edge of the building, the girl was just below him, now, low to the ground, doing her own peeping over the side of the building.

He bit his lip, heart speeding up. She looked to be about sixteen, dressed in all black- though the bracelets, covered in spikes, alongside the choker and the dyed white hair were what gave away her hubris.

(The hair. A spark worked its way through his nerves, sharp and metallic, and he thought his heart was going to burst through his chest.)

He loved the rebellious types. So stupid.

She ducked back behind the building, straightening, clearly planning to dart across the street.

Before she could, though, he dropped down, landing on the balls of his feet (and he knew, at some level, that Plagg’s mere presence kept him safe, kept him extraordinarily agile, and he _hated_ it so he ignored it).

Before the girl could scream he dove at her, hand slamming over her mouth, grin wide and feral and he knew his eyes were half-crazed despite being _there_ in every sense of the word, aware of _everything_ , every breeze, every sound, every movement of her body and coil of his, the sound of her cellphone dropping to the pavement and her breathing suddenly going haywire music to his ears.

“Now, now, no need to be scared of a shadow, huh?” he asked, voice a whisper, and tears flooded her eyes instantly and this was going to be _such_ a good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is an AU inspired by Adrien's lines about wanting to try his Cataclysm on a human being. Here, he's also a murderer (obviously); I'm going to try to explore the reasons for this later on, but, for now, it's going to be plot and a bit of backstory.  
> I hope you like it :)
> 
> (Also, please pardon my French- I'm in the process of learning, and I have the basics down- hopefully- but who knows? Not I.)


	2. Chapter 2

I didn’t sleep that night. Going out as Shadow is worse for my sleep schedule than going out as Chat, even; at least Chat switches off with Ladybug.

Ca(n’)t complain, though.

Despite how late it was, last night was… stupendous.

It took a while to maneuver the knife around enough to get her hair off neatly, and even more time to position the body and sneak back home. But I finally have it- really, it was so perfect, her hair. If I concentrate, I can still feel the cloud in my chest that exploded when I first saw her.

It was so worth it, so wonderfully-

My chest is lighter. My shoulders higher. My mind, clearer.

Until Nathalie knocks on my door and tells me to hurry up and get to the car while I’m elbows-deep in soapy water, washing the blood off my suit. I swear quietly under my breath, glancing at the clock on the radio. Nearly seven.

“I’ll be out in a minute!” I shout. “Just gotta finish showering- you know how it is! Model types!”

My go-to line. Honestly, It’s one of the funniest I’ve ever come up with, in my opinion.

I’ve thought about killing Nathalie. Her left ear is uncannily perfect for what I need.

But I like Nathalie. Really, I do. Besides, killing someone so close to me would be a mistake.

“Well, hurry up! You’re going to be late!” she shouts.

I bite my lip, close my eyes. It’s not her fault. She has to be strict- her whole existence revolves around me, around my perfection. Too many slip ups, and she’s fired.

I let a few minutes pass before I pull the drain and toss the sopping suit into sink- no one will come in here, and besides, I live in the house of a fashion designer. No blood, no suspicions, only a son looking up to his dear father.

My backpack is packed, homework neatly in its folder- I grab both as I rush out the room, rolling my sleeves down. Nathalie looks at me out of the corner of her eye as I throw myself into the car.

“New hair dryer?”

I smile, nod. “Best in Paris,” I tell her.

“You’ll have to let me know what brand it is. Mine’s not so great.”

She turns back to her clipboard, beginning to rattle off my schedule, friendliness buried under a mound of professionalism and lattes- not that I mind. She’s been trying to get closer to me, recently; it’s a tad…worrisome.

We careen through the streets, taking turns on two wheels and running lights and signs until, with a screech, we pull up to the front of the school. Before Nathalie can say anything else about dinner tonight, I’m out the door, sprinting up the stairs.

Yes, I chose to go to a public school. Ulterior motives? Me?

Well, now that you mention it…

Most of the people that Shadow kills are young. Middle school age, a few in higher education standings, but the vast majority in the younger building.

I want to see the fear.

Already, since the beginning of the year- coincidentally, around the same time I got out more- a third of the class has dropped out.

Sure enough, Nino rushes up to me as soon as my foot hits the top stair.

“Dude! Hey!” He raises his hand, I reach up my own. “Did you hear about the…” he trails off, his hand going lax in my own.

I frown. “What is it?” Could it be another… homishade?

I frown deeper. That was terrible.

“Addie. Addie was…” He trailed off, eyes meeting the ground.

“Oh, no. Addie?” Honestly, I’d never heard of the girl.

“Yeah. She was in my math class two years ago. They’re saying she was… scalped, man. _Scalped._ Le Chasseur Ombre, again.” Nino shivered, his headphones swaying slightly. We turn, entering the school, where students are huddled in small groups, talking quietly.

“Oh, man, I’m so sorry.” I reach out and touch his shoulder. “It’ll be okay. They’ll catch this guy soon.”

Nino scoffed, nudging me in the direction of Alya and Marinette. “You’ve been saying that for a while, now, Adrien, and I gotta say: you’re usually right, but I don’t think you are on this one.”

I press my lips together, looking straight ahead. I can feel a headache building from the lack of sleep, and Alya’s voice is cutting right to the middle of it.

“Hey, guys,” Nino says. “Did you hear?”

Alya whirls on him, her cheeks slightly red, undereye bags visible on her dark skin.

“Of course I’ve heard! Who do you think I am, some media consumer?” Marinette grimaces, face going pale.

“Alya, come on. Let’s be a little more… quiet.” Her eyes dart over to me as she says this. “Respectful.”

Cue eye roll. “I’m respecting her memory by immortalizing her on my blog. Life is a big thing- a loud, big thing. Can’t be quiet about it.”

Nino scoffs, and I grin. Gotta love a girl unfazed by the actual murder.

“Anyways,” she goes on. “Did you hear how the body was positioned?”

Something inside of me lights up, jumps. Beside me, both Nino and Marinette bite their lips. Silence, for a bit, and then-

“Alya, I don’t think-“

“What was special about it?”

Nino glances at me out of the corner of his eye. Marinette’s face falls a fraction, her mouth snapping shut. Shoot.

“Er, sorry. Sorry, Marinette. I just.” I shrugged. “Late night. And I’m.” Avert eyes, try to force some color into my cheeks. “I’m a little nervous.”

It works. She melts. “No, Adrien, I understand.”

An entire sentence without stammering. A new record.

I snap my thoughts off. I like Marinette. A lot. Her, Alya, Nino… they’re really good friends.

When I start listening again, Alya is in the middle of describing the body.

“-scalped, of course. And her fingers were cut off and _braided into her hair._ ”

I bit back a smile. That part was pretty amazing, if I do say so myself.

“-propped up against the wall like she was meditating, but there was no esophagus-“

Marinette suddenly excuses herself and rushes off towards the girls’ bathrooms. Alya’s mouth snaps shut.

“Maybe I’ll. Yeah. Go into less detail.” She takes out her phone and starts tapping away.

“Yeah, that’d be a good idea,” Nino says, and elbows me in the side, raising his eyebrows.

“Um. Just a tad.” I shoot her a smile- which she does not receive, eyes stuck to her blog- and nod at Nino towards the stairs.

“We, uh. Better go to class, huh?”

He nods. “See you in ten, Alya.”

She looks up, smiles. “Yeah. I’ll be up right after I get Marinette.” She frowns, turns on her heel, and marches towards where Marinette ran to a few minutes prior.

Nino shakes his head. “I swear, that girl.”

I nod my head with every step I take. “Yeah. Almost makes you think…” I trail off, grinning. Luckily, Nino’s apprehension from earlier has worn off, the normalcy of the school halls- and Alya’s energy- getting his sensitivity levels back down.

Nino punches my arm. “Heh, yeah. Alya talks, but she can’t _do_. And I _guarantee_ as soon as she sees the photos she’s trying to hack, she’ll be joining Marinette for a different reason.”

We reach the door, Nino shouldering it open, his cap sliding slightly to the side. I sigh, headache growing stronger, steeling myself against the bright light reflecting through the windows, and follow him in.

It’s going to be a tiring day.

Like I said, though. Worth it in every sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the support and all your wonderful comments- it means so much :) I hope you liked this chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

Ladybug. Darling, dearest, divine. I pulled out my pole, slammed it into the ground, and rose up to meet her.

She was waiting for me- for Chat- on the roof of the shoemaker’s house, crouched behind the chimney stacks. The curfew didn’t apply to Ladybug and I (ironic, really,) and this was our third night out this week. And it was only Tuesday.

Not that I minded. The moonlight was, somehow, making her hair even blacker, her eyes even bluer. Every time I saw them I thought of the void, an endless fall, cool air and eternity and-

“Hey, Chat,” she said, straightening out.

“My Lady,” I said. “Such a beautiful night, no? Of course, not as beautiful as yo-“

“Chat. Someone else died last night.”

Her voice. Small, cracking. Guilty.

I blinked, stepping onto the rood, retracting my pole. “Where?”

“Down near the fountain in the park. Only a few blocks from here.”

_Shit._

I let my head drop, shoulders limp. “My area.” Forcing more guilt into my voice than was in hers.

It’s not that I wanted _her_ to feel guilty. Habit, I guess. Besides, this is what she would expect to hear. Or hope to hear. She was _good._ And she believed others were good. Even Chat- and, by extension, me.

(A colossal _hiss_ take.)

(Eh.)

“No, I didn’t mean-“

“I know. I just.” I let my throat close up, biting the inside of my cheek to bring tears to my eyes. “I-I’m sorry, Ladybug.”

“Hey, hey. No, Chat, I just meant. Whoever this is, he’s not afraid of us.” Her voice was still small, but in a different way, now, the change almost instantaneous. Before, small in a I’m-Guilty-And-This-Is-On-My-Shoulders way. Not it was more of a I’m-A-Good-Kind-Person-And-I-Want-To-Comfort-You way. Her arm wrapped around my shoulders, and, as much as I detested it, I felt my heart speed up.

God, did I love her.

She was far too good for me.

“Besides, I think it was after we stopped searching.”

I let silence hang for a few moments, relishing her warmth, her other hand now grasping mine. We never touched this much, this intimately.

It both exhilarated me and sickened it.

I knew she’d never approve, I knew if she found out she’d feel sick, repulsed. She may even go after me, if she was feeling strong that day.

But sometimes, when we were together, I almost thought that maybe I could live without the blood. Maybe her touch, her eyes, her smile would be enough to make me feel alive, steady.

Hey, a guy can hope.

I sniffled once, twice, and then raised my head, using my free hand to push her hand on my shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze.

“Guess we better stay out later, then, huh?”

She shot me a sad smile, her eyes wide, worried. “Yeah,” she said. “This is going to be hard.” She sighed. I wondered what she did during the day, when she wasn’t Ladybug. Why she would be so tired. What would suffer due to her now inevitable exhaustion.

Did she have a father to worry about?

Probably not. Maybe a sister. Or a mother. She’s too gentle, too soft, to have had to worry about fathers.

She sits down on the rooftop, suddenly, her chin falling into her palms.

“Maybe we could split it? You stay out until two, I come out until six?”

I sat down next to her, something tight in my chest. “I don’t think-“

“Or, wait, that’s unfair. One and six?”

“No, I-“ She couldn’t be out alone; I’d be stuck to certain times, I couldn’t kill only then and I wouldn’t make-

“Midnight and six? No, one and six-“

-her feel the guilt if I did kill during her patrol. “I don’t think that’s a good idea!”

She looked up at me, eyes hardening. “What else can we do, Chat? I can’t stay up all night. I assume you can’t, either.”

“Well, we- I can’t watch this while city by myself. And you can’t, either.”

“So? Either way, it’s a bad choice. At least this way one of us will always be out.”

“But if we’re together, there’s a better chance of spotting him. Of catching him. If we’re apart…”

“But he’ll just learn our schedule-“

“So we’ll change it!”

Too loud. I lowered my voice, lowered the hands I hadn’t noticed were above my head. “Lady, we’ll make it random. We’ll catch him. But we _have_ to work together.”

Her lips, her beautiful pink lips, pressed together tightly.

“I don’t know, Chat.”

“Please.” I waited a beat. “I don’t think I could do it without you. If I saw him.”

There. I could see her eyes soften, her shoulders relax. She wouldn’t leave me to deal with him all my own. And I knew that she wouldn’t want to, either.

And, clever girl that she is, knew that Chat would want to keep her close, too. She was too selfless to split us, now.

I let out all the air in my lungs, and my chest unclenched.

“Okay. Yeah. You’re right. Sorry, Chat.”  
“No, my little bug. I’m sorry.” I didn’t like the desperation in my voice. But for her? I wouldn’t dwell too much on it.

She sighed and pushed herself to her feet, towering above me. “Well, we better get going. I have a te- thing tomorrow, and I can’t loose too much sleep.” She frowned, eyebrows furrowed. “Hopefully this creep will show up soon or stay quiet.”

“Perhaps he’s fled town. Off to the woods, never to disturb a soul again.” I said, taking her outstretched hand, pulling myself up.

She was close to me. Close enough that I could hear the breath catch in her throat.

“I’m not sure that’s the fate I’d wish for him,” she muttered. And, before I could say anything else, her yo-yo was out and flying towards the streetlight a few houses down.

A small part of me lit up. A different part knew that she was already feeling guilty for the comment.

But a small part of me lit up.

I ran to the edge of the roof and jumped off, throwing my pole out, already more than a block behind the love of my life.

The night wouldn’t be as long as she was making it out to be. It never was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick heads up: ages and timelines are altered just a bit!

She’s beautiful. He doesn’t have to remember that, because there are pictures all over the house, but he does remember. The only person he has ever seen come close to her is his Lady- though her beauty, the night to his mother’s day.

His mother was _beautiful._

And, yes, he knows that this is what everyone says about mothers. But his was… extraordinary _._ A sun for a smile, pearls for eyes, hugs that were probably causing the earth to warm.

Not that the earth minded. Not with her.

He loved her. With all his heart, he loved her.

He remembers a lot. She did not die too long ago. Sometimes he feels like this is a curse. All these memories, all the promises she made of travel, all the photos and gifts and touches of her around his room.

Sometimes he wishes he never knew her. So that the pain would be less. He wishes that she had died sooner, as awful as it is. That his father-

But then he thinks. And he remembers going to the parks with her. Picnics, swing sets, playing in the fountain and there were no cameras, no disappointed fathers, no screaming desires to _kill kill kill_

He remembers fancy dinners, her hair in a bun, stealing his potatoes or pasta and slipping him her greens- and then eating all the greens, because she knew he hated them.

He remembers going to the ocean, once, sitting on her shoulders, the water freezing and the sun warm but not as warm as her head, as her neck, heat radiating through his torso and the part of his cheek he managed to rest upon her crown.

He was happy. She was happy. His father, believe it or not, was not happy. But he was bearable.

She used to sing him lullabies. Far longer than she should have- he remembers her singing to him a week after his eighth birthday, a song about baskets and pick up sticks and apples. A song for children. But he couldn’t sleep without it.

Not that he knew how peculiar this was, of course. He was, after all, homeschooled. Cut off from everyone his age, cut off from everyone outside of his family. Back then, though, he didn’t mind. He had his mother, and she was his world. And with her as his all, there was nothing more he could want.

And then, one day, she was gone.

This, he remembers so vividly.

The night before, there were no lullabies. Her voice was piercing, loud, calling for- for what? He couldn’t tell. He was scared. He knew this was coming, he could see it in his father’s eyes

_monster monster save her SAVE HER_

but he was still scared, too scared to do anything, so he ran to his room and dove under his covers and covered his ears and hoped that was he knew was happening wasn’t actually happening.

Somehow he fell asleep, dreams fitful, full of his mother’s hands and her sobs and him pleading for her to fight harder and her pushing him away.

He knew she was gone the next day when he woke up and she didn’t come to get him, when nine o’clock passed, ten o’clock, eleven o’clock.

He remembers the times before, the seven o’clocks when he would lie awake in his bed, pretending to be asleep, until his mother came to get him, most days. Her hand, gentle on his cheek, her voice, soft, “Adrien, my sweet boy,” like a thousand chimes singing just for him.

He remembers the twelve o’clock when the door opened, and he tensed and knew it wasn’t her, it was _him,_ it would _always_ be _him_ and he was, for the first time, without his world.

The footsteps were different. The hand was on his check, not on his shoulder. The voice.

He curled up, pulling the covers over his head. He shivered.

“Adrien,” and “I’m sorry,” and “You were right to leave,” and “She wouldn’t have wanted you to see that,” and “Dead” and “Dead” and “Dead.”

That was the first time his father entered his room, that was the last time his father entered his room, that was the first time his father let him skip his lessons, that was the last time his father let him skip his lessons.

That was the last time he allowed his father to touch him.

That was the last time he threw a tantrum. That was the last time he screamed until his voice was raw. He wishes it were the last time he cried, but it is not. Far from it. Her absence, fresh each day he sat down to an empty table, each sunny morning without her arm in his as they strolled through the park, each night without a lullaby, without sleep, every _waking minute_ hurt, hurt _so badly_ , and he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

And the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months and the months turned into years and it still hurt as much as it did that first night, that first day, but he has different outlets now, ones that he doesn’t think she would like but ones that he knows he’s good at, ones that he _knows_ he’s destined to do.

Sometimes he sees her out of the corner of his eye when he throws himself headfirst into danger. Headfirst into the path of a car or onto the oblivious man below or in front of his Lady or into his father’s office without a daily report.

He’s not a fool. He knows that she’s gone. That she’s not watching out for him. That she’s not on the clouds or in the ground waiting for his magic potion. That there isn’t anything that he can do to bring her back, and that these hallucinations are brought on by five years of uncounseled grief.

But sometimes. Sometimes he thinks, sometimes he feels, sometimes he can make himself believe, because every time he rescues someone, he feels like he is saving her.

And every time he kills someone, he feels like he is helping her.


	5. Chapter 5

I’m going to help her tonight.

I know this- sometimes I try to plan for unexpected, like a rare phone call from my father or one of Nathalie’s pity Connect-Four dates. But I’ve needed it for so long now- putting it off because my lady was insistent on going out nearly every night, and I wouldn’t- couldn’t- ever make her feel as though she were inadequate, as though she had let Le Chasseur Ombre slip through her fingers. But I’ve put it off too long now. No matter what, I was going out tonight.

There was an unintentional spring to my step, a regretful grin on my face that I should have been able to control better.

I have to say, though- I couldn’t care less about my inability to hide these things right now.

Tonight. Tonight! No more staying inside while not Chat, going to sleep early so Lady and I could stay out longer. No more forcing myself relax as best I could through the twitching in my fingers, the spasms of my eyelids. Strong, steady hands now; clear, unclouded eyes. The perfect killer (if I do say so myself) was ready to go out.

Plagg noticed the change in mood. He wasn’t stupid. He didn’t speak to me throughout school, sulking in my backpack.

I’d feel sorry for him if he hadn’t been so obtuse about the while thing.

Besides that, the only hack in the day was how long it was, especially come evening. Dinner was excruciating- one of the few times the chef was able to do what she thought was a kind deed and slip in to eat with me while everyone else was too busy monitoring the latest fashion disaster to call her out on it.

“Do you like it?” she was asking, pointing to the third dish of the night. “That’s the soup I saw on the television that won all those prizes… I do hope it turned out _souper_!”

I will admit. There were some times I admired the woman.

It was harder to now, though. Her smile, silly, girlish- despite her obvious thinking that it appeared coy, intelligent… my teeth hurt, my jaw hurt, clenching them though chewing, my fingers tapping impatiently on the table, waiting for her to just _leave_.

“Yeah,” I said. I could feel my teeth cracking. “It’s…” I couldn’t think of a pun. To be fair, though, I also was not really tasting the soup. “Great. Really well blended.”

She smiled, chins appearing, and threw her head back, arms up. “Excellent!” she cried.

So over-dramatic.

It didn’t take too long to finish the stew- still, by the time she was bringing out dessert, my leg was bouncing, a mind of its own, beneath the table.

At last- at long last- she went back into the kitchen for the night and I was able to slip away to my room.

Two days past the final patrol set up with Ladybug, the city easing down from the unusually long break between murders, the night, as of now, was going to be absolutely _purrfect_.

(Or should I say _killer_?)

(Or how about _pawa_ \- No. No. Never mind.)

Usually, I tried to wait a few hours before slipping into my costume and launching myself off the roof- tonight, though, my blood rushing and my heart hammering, I was only able to wait about half an hour, pacing around the room, before I found myself tying the red chord around my waist, grabbing two knives and shoving them in between the coils, and throwing open my window.

“Plagg,” I whispered. “Ready to go have some fun?”

I didn’t wait for his response, hissing out the words that would pull him into my ring- his reluctance strong enough to prevent me from donning the costume and most of the powers (including Cataclysm, unfortunately,) but still granting me the strength and agility I had as Chat.

He thought it was hurting me. Really, though, it was almost the ideal set up. Everything here- all the destruction. It was all me. Me!

Quietly, I threw myself into the night sky, reaching for the ledge above me that would allow me to propel myself to the house behind mine.

If anyone had been outside in the gardens, they would have heard me laugh.

 

+++

 

The streets were quiet, but not deserted. I crept along the rooftops, scanning the people scattered amoung the sidewalks below, all doctors or nurses or dealers or the homeless.

Yes, I did enjoy taking from the people my own age. But with that curfew, only those considered emergency personal were allowed out. And I doubted, after that last girl, that children were keen on sneaking out.

Besides, tonight I had to help my mom. I had to-

I’d go after anyone that I needed tonight. This was a business night, not one solely for enjoyment, and what I needed could not come from children; not since I got the hair.

I kept my eyes on those down below as I rocketed from rooftop to rooftop, letting my foot hit so that a ringing sound echoed through the house if the shingles were metal- especially those with lights on in the upper rooms, children too afraid to sleep in darkness. Can’t be completely controlled all the time, you know?

It took less than an hour to see something I needed; the left hand, a beacon in the dark, glinting with a silver wedding band.

I grinned.

There were no officers around him. Another alley-cutter, _tsk tsk goes the kitty_.

I followed him for a few blocks, trying to form an image of the next alley he may take, loving that delicious moment of dropping down in front of someone after they thought they were free, sauntering up to the shaking body, blood roaring in both our ears-

Shaking my head. No. No more games tonight. No letting him run for freedom.

Clean, quick, grab the hand and _go._

I clenched my teeth, let my breath whistle between them. I wish I could have fun more often, but for now-

I stood on the edge of the roof, flipping off, landing behind him just as he entered the next alley.

“Hello, sir. How-“

He whirled, lunged. Shouted something, but my hand was over his mouth, cutting him short, my leg wrapping around his neck to ensure nothing else came out.

“Ah, shh. The children are sleeping!” A stage-whisper. His hands came up, one wrapping around my calf, reaching for my hair (“Careful of my hat! It’s _designer_ ,” tightening my leg,) and I could see his eyes widen in the dark- fear, hopefully; the realization that I was a child or a gruff woman, maybe; the thought that this might be his last night, definitely.

He gurgled, tipping slightly left before stumbling right into the wall. I hissed as my knee slammed into the brick, but didn’t let my grip go. He had to _die_ , he had to go _down_ , I wanted to see some _blood and he was going to beg for release helpless below me and i would saw off his hand as he held it in front of his face-_

Something in his neck snapped, and he dropped to the ground. I kicked away, rolling, and he opened his mouth again-

Shit.

But it stayed open, slack, red in the night.

_Shit!_

“Sir? Have I killed you already? Please say no.” I leaned over him. Eye movement, a flicker, a blink, a wave of terror washing over those deep brown eyes. I grinned. “Ah, good. This is going to be _sofuckating_ fun.”

Mmmhmm. Let him go out with some humor.

Gripping the handle of my knife, I bent over him, grabbing his left wrist and holding it aloft. He didn’t even twitch, but his eyes slid shut.

“Now, don’t go and die on my yet,” I said. Yanking at the rope, pulling it free of my waist and wrapping it around his mouth, tightening until I could see his pearly whites, his pinkpinkpink gums, the ends around his legs; knees and ankles, won’t have him slipping away from me. “I really do love this hand,” I say to him, nudging it with my foot as I tie the chord. “Really, it’s uncannily similar to a hand I know quite well… all it needs is-“ I tug sharply, hear a gasp, his eyelids flutter but don’t open- “a scar, along the thumb. We can’t all be perfect, though.” I finish with the chord, snatch the knife back off the ground. “But _this_ ,” I stab my knife downwards, slicing through his skin, through his muscle, feeling the blade nick off bone- “helps a bit. It won’t heal in time to scar. But it’s the closest I can do, and you gotta do your best in everything, you know?”

There’s a moment of silence before he begins to scream, his eyes snapping open, his body spasming, helpless kicks. He tries to yank his arm to his chest but I step on it before he can, the _snap_ echoing through the alley, bouncing just above his muffled cries.

“Hush! You’re being very rude, you know. These people are _trying to sleep_.” I ground my heel, the bone shifting below my foot, and he begins to wail.

“You’re making a lot more noise than you should be.”

He continues to scream. I sigh. I wanted to draw this out, see some blood, but this- having him beneath me, his eyes wide, filled with fear, bound and gagged and looking at me, the cause of all this- that… was actually enough, for now. I mean, I wouldn’t complain if my red chord was better at smothering his sobs, but after so long without anything like this, I could feel the fire in me flaring up even at this little provocation. So I’ll be just fine, ending it earlier than I usually do.

I stood from my crouch, smiling down at him, and tipped my hat.

“Okay, if you’re going to insist on being so rude...” A murmur, barley audible, but still, he tries to scream more loudly, struggle more viciously, until-

down goes my knife, that wonderful feel of broken skin and muscle and bouncing off bone shuddering through my arm, though my chest, through my body. I cackle, the blood slick against my hand, his neck darker than the night.

I’ve already broken the wrist bone. What fun is severing a limb if they’ll go numb to it so shortly after?

He gurgles, I giggle, he dies, and I.

I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming, laughter in my chest, I can feel my eyes, dry and on fire and my teeth are glowing in the alley, my smile bigger than the world.

I make quick work of his hand, once he stops thrashing, once the death throes die out.

The news tells me, that morning, only a few hours later, that those in the surrounding houses thought there was a cat fight outside. (They were half-right.) They’re urging citizens to report _any_ suspicious noises, no matter how silly it seems.

Before the report can finish, one of the maids is clicking off the television, muttering about how I shouldn’t be watching such gruesome stories, clutching her necklace and shoving one of my Chinese books at me. I have to hold the book up high to hide my smile, my eyes drifting to the speck of blood I let go beneath my nail, a brilliant reminder of the joys of last night, of the hand, drying, hidden below my bed, waiting for the other parts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so not sure if i like this. but it was kind of fun to write  
> thank you all so so so much for the comments and kudos!!! i really appreciate them :)  
> the plot will begin to really ultra happen in the next chapters


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